


Choosing My Confessions

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: A is too uncertain of their place in B's life to directly ask for direly needed help, Aftermath Of A Enduring Torture To Keep Enemy From Noticing What A's Friends Were Doing, Awkward shoulder pats, Being stuck together in a seemingly fatal situation, Character Must Convincingly Pretend to Betray Others, Character believes no one is coming to save them, Gen, Hurt character needs help undressing, Hurt to Protect the Comforter, Interrogation, Near Drowning, Pub songs sung with menace, Technically awful attempts at comfort are actually very comforting, beatings, welcome to the team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24286528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: Undercover for Team Machine, Lionel is certain this time he's made too many bad choices.
Relationships: Harold Finch & Lionel Fusco, Lionel Fusco & Sameen Shaw
Comments: 13
Kudos: 29
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Choosing My Confessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wafflelate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflelate/gifts).



> Thank you to my two alphabetas! You guys rock. 
> 
> Title from Losing My Religion by REM.

Shaw punches like Fusco expects she would: each one lands like a hammer, those big rubbery mallets that carnies use on the big top. One lands solidly into his cheekbone, and he sees bright sparks in his vision from the impact, goes all swoony in the arms of the big Serbian guy holding him up. He'd be mad about it, but he can feel how perfectly placed the strike was, how it missed his teeth, his nose, his brain. 

In front of him, Shaw bounces on the balls of her feet, like she's a boxer. She's lining up the next one. Lionel tries not to tense, tries not to meet her eyes. He doesn't want to put her off, not that anything would put Shaw off her game. She's a professional. 

This time, it's a kick to the guts, right in his diaphragm, timed just after he took a deep gasping breath. All the air rushes out of him, as well as a pretty fucking spectacular spray of blood and spit. Lionel hams it up a bit, lurching forward, breaking free from Janko's grip, falling to the ground on all fours. Blood drips from his mouth and nose, makes a bright red smear on the concrete floor. He stays there as long as he can, makes sure they can hear his moaning and gasping, puts on a good show for the gang. The long they can draw this out, the longer Glasses has to get into their system, open it up like an oyster and get hold of the meat. 

Shaw's foot swings out again while he's on hands and knees, before Janko can drag him back up. It lands sideways this time, planting into the fat above his ribs. Fusco collapses onto his side, and then scissors out his legs in a futile attempt to trip her. 

The men all laugh as Shaw dances out of the way. A few of them make what Fusco assumes are lewd comments, and that actually rattles Shaw, because she's on his back in a moment, knife out and against Fusco's throat. Fusco feels the edge of the blade nick his skin. He stays very, very still. Behind him, he hears Shaw breathing hard. Well. If he had to be her personal punching bag, at least she got a good workout.

"Enough, Ana," says the boss, his voice soothing, his gestures expansive. "We all can see that you're very dedicated to your work." 

"You hired me to keep you safe, Goran. I told you I don't fuck around." 

Goran reaches out to grip her shoulder, all comradely, and Shaw slaps him away with her free hand. Fusco would really like her to not move so vigorously while she's got a knife to his throat. He trusts her, but the problem with that is that Shaw is so competent, she probably knows how to cut his throat and make it look real. Probably knows how much blood he can gush out on the floor and still live, too. Fusco would rather not go back to work in a few days looking like he survived an encounter with the headless horseman. It will be hard enough to explain the bruises. 

He's been with Goran's people for nearly a day now, and they weren't so fucking precise in their beatings. His lower back hurts in the way he knows means he'll be peeing blood tomorrow, and one of his eyes is already swollen closed. 

"We hired you as an interrogator, Ana. I don't want to tell you your job –" This is self-deception at its finest. Goran is exactly the kind of dick who tells women their jobs. "But we will need him alive, if you are to get details out of him, no?" 

The knife at Fusco's throat backs off. "You got that right," Shaw says. Fusco feels the blade slide behind his ear. "But Miss America here doesn't need both his ears, now, does he?" 

Shit, shit. Shaw could do that, Fusco's pretty certain Shaw would have no qualms about slicing off his ear. Probably stitch it back on again for him, tell him he was lucky she didn't charge plastic surgeon's rates or whatever. He bucks in her grip, tries to throw off her headlock. Shaw grips her knees into his hips like she's riding a horse, and fuck, that hurts his back where the kidney punch landed. As he thrashes, the knife slices into his skin and he makes a wailing noise of terror, waiting for it to cut all the way through. Then he realises that Shaw's thumb is pressed against the back of his neck, that she's moving it in little soothing circles, trying to tell him something. It's okay, that gesture says. It's okay, I got you, easy now, it's okay. He takes a heaving, pathetic breath. She's gonna be so mad she had to do that. Fusco knows how much she hates showing affection. 

"Calm down, Detective." Goran puts that ironic little twist into Fusco's title, the way people do when they assume that because he's fat, he's useless. That's fine, buddy, Fusco thinks, please continue to underestimate me. His breathing is steadying out now. He can handle this. He can handle this for hours. 

He hopes Harold is doing a number on their system. Aside from breaking up a human trafficking ring, he hopes Harold takes the fucker's money. He hopes Goran gets left with nothing, has to rely on a shitty public defender instead of a row of suits when he ends up behind bars. 

Shaw leans an elbow on Fusco's head, like she's so bored with these proceedings, like she's sitting at home with her head in her palm watching reruns on TV. "You gotta ask him actual questions," she says. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to see him spill his guts!" Goran shrieks at her, like the prima donna he is. "I just. Want to know. What he's doing here." He jabs his finger into Fusco's chest as a form of punctuation. Fusco can feel the bruises rising up there already. 

"That's more like it." Shaw taps Fusco on the head with the hilt of her knife, all showy now, all sauce and flair, giving Fusco a bit of a breather. "Cough it up, bozo." 

Fusco opens his mouth, prepares some bullshit to spin for this guy, something that makes sense. It starts spilling out: random things, stupid things, regurgitating things he's heard Simmons say. 

"Bunch of us are splitting off," he says. "Starting our own operation. We're scouting for new talent. HR is too big, too unwieldy." 

Now Goran is smiling at him, and Fusco realises he's made a mistake, though he can't think what it is. "Is that what you needed, Officer?" Goran says, looking over his shoulder. 

Fusco feels Shaw's muscles suddenly go taut, and he blinks his streaming eyes, tries to clear them. He hears footsteps, a familiar clip of heels on concrete that makes his stomach churn. 

"That's quite a story, Lionel." Simmons' voice is jocular, light, and though Fusco can't focus right now, he knows exactly what expression goes with that voice, and it's bad. 

Simmons leans down so they're face-to-face, close enough that Fusco can smell the peppermint on his breath. "You fucking moron." Then he draws and shoots Goran in the head. The body falls with a soft rumple of cloth. Goran's arm is in Fusco's lap. It's distressingly warm. The fingers twitch then lie still. 

The room goes wild for a moment. He hears someone swearing in what Fusco presumes is Serbian. He hears a few guns being drawn and cocked. 

"Enough!" Simmons' voice cuts through the babble and panic. "Your boss thought he could negotiate a price for one of our own. Your boss didn't pick up the phone quite fast enough to convince me he wasn't looking for another buyer. You want HR's protection, you give HR your loyalty. Period." 

The warehouse is silent now, and everyone's eyes are on Simmons. Shaw's gaze is apparently untroubled as she checks her perimeter from time to time, as if she doesn't give a damn about what's happening to the gang. 

"You – what's your name? Ana?" Simmons points at her. Fusco tenses, ready to shove her out of the way if the gun comes up. "You're the most competent operator – you wanna run this bunch of morons? Paycheck's good, as long as you keep HR's pockets lined." 

Shaw shrugs. "No offence - I get that it's a good deal, but the reason I left the Marines is because they kept shoving leadership at me. I'm just really good at hurting people, you know?" 

"I do." Simmons laughs. "Thank you for your honesty. Knock my guy out, will you? Then I'll be leaving you to sort this out on your own." 

Oh, shit, thinks Fusco. Shaw looks at him, looks back at Simmons, and he can see the indecision in her eyes for a second. For a minute he's hopeful she'll put one between Simmons' eyes. He knows Glasses doesn't go for that sort of thing, but there's gotta be an exception for Simmons, right? That would save a lot of people a lot of sorry. Then Shaw cold-cocks Fusco across the head with her gun.

* * *

_I've been a wild rover for many's the year,  
And I've spent all me money on whiskey and beer…_

The tune is jaunty and it thumps into Fusco's head like eleven hundred hangovers. He tries to move, to get away from the booming voice, but there's a seatbelt across his chest, and he can't quite get his legs to move like they should. Where the fuck is he? What the fuck is happening? His mouth tastes like copper and meat. His fingers are numb. The sky is dark and the headlights hurt like laser beams in his eyes.

_But now I'm returning with gold in great store,  
And I never will play the wild rover no more._

Oh, yeah, thinks Fusco. Simmons likes to sing while he drives, especially when he's feeling jubilant. Pub songs. Songs he says speak to his heritage, or some stupid shit. 

"Lionel!" A heavy hand claps down onto his shoulder and Fusco feels his stomach rebel. He heaves forward, despite the seatbelt, despite the cuffs he finds he's wearing. "You better not puke in my squad car, my friend. You know I'll make you eat it."

Fusco does know. This isn't his first ride with Simmons. "Where're we going?" he says, wetly. He's not sure if it's blood or saliva pooling in his mouth and if he thinks about it too hard, he will lose his guts. 

"We're driving down to the water for a little chat," Simmons says. "After that? It depends. Maybe I'll buy you a beer. Maybe I'll buy you a wreath." 

Fusco shuts his eyes, concentrates on the road ahead. Simmons probably won't kill him. That doesn't make sense, right? Fusco's a good operator. He's their way into the homicide taskforce. He's still got value. 

"She was a firecracker, that Ana." Simmons shook his head, admiring. "She sure worked you over. You look like a fucking piñata." 

"Feel like one." That's better. Fusco's voice is a little steadier. He can talk his way out of this. He's been in worse situations. 

"I have to ask, Lionel," says Simmons. "Whose idea was it to go poking into the Serbs' operation? Because I know for sure that it wasn't you. You don't got the imagination." 

Fusco leans against the headrest, tries to figure out where he is through the double vision. He can see the ocean now. It's pretty painful, all shimmery and poetic and shit. "It really doesn't matter." 

He's so tired, too tired to cap his smartass mouth. Pull yourself together, Lionel. Nobody's going to pull your ass out of the water, not when it's you that got yourself in trouble in the first place. He knows he's on his own when it comes to HR business, and he knows why. 

Simmons pulls the squad car off the road and into a parking lot by the ocean. Nothing there but a boat ramp and a bunch of seagulls. 

"Oyster Bay?" Fusco asks, trying to make it conversational. Simmons hasn't decided yet, he can tell. There's still a chance he can walk away from this. 

"For you, Lionel, I went the extra mile. This is Baiting Hollow." Simmons spreads his arm out, expansive, the gracious host. He helps Fusco out of the car, helps him shuffle down the boat ramp. Fusco can't take big steps even if his legs would hold him, because Simmons has him in shackles, the kind you use for prisoner transport. Fusco tests the weight of them as they walk slowly down the ramp. If Simmons pushes him in, they're not so heavy that they'll weigh him down but they will stop him from thrashing. He can drown that way too. 

"Half a mile that way," Simmons gestures over Fusco's shoulder towards the trees. Fusco can see lights shining bright in the darkness. "Country club full of people so rich, they pay people to pay people to pick garbage like you off their beach." He points towards the city. "Over there, vineyards." Towards the tip of the island. "Golf course down that way. Only the best for you, my stupid, stupid friend." 

He moves so fast, or Fusco is so stunned by the beatings, that Simmons' arms blur in front of Fusco's face as he pushes him over. The water is so cold it stings, so cold that in the shock of it he forgets to hold his breath and takes a great lungful of salt water in. He's too busy thrashing with his chained arms, struggling to get to the surface and cough that his plans go completely out of his head. He forgets about wooing Simmons, about easing himself back into HR's bosom. He just wants to live. He just wants one more breath, he'll do anything for one more breath. He's horribly aware that he's going to black out, and if he blacks out, he won't be able to do anything… 

Simmons grabs a fistful of wet shirt and hauls him up, holding himself away from Fusco as salt water gushes out of his mouth. He coughs and coughs and heaves in oxygen, and it's so good, at this point, if Simmons asked him to spill his guts, he'd tell him anything. 

"There we go, easy now, easy, Fusco, just breathe." Simmons pushes the hair out of Fusco's eyes. "How're you going? Need another dip before we get into question time?" 

Fusco shakes his head desperately, but down he goes again. At least this time he's ready for the cold, for the enveloping sting of salt water in his eyes and the million little cuts on his face. He stays as still as he can, tries to conserve his breath as long as possible. He can wait this out, he can. Then Simmons plants a foot on his chest, stomping down hard. 

All the air Fusco desperately fought to hold onto gushes out in a wave of bubbles. As he flails under the water he thinks he sees an object, blacker than the starlit night, flying towards Simmons like a fish. 

His face breaks the surface of the water and he gasps for air. Shaw stands above him, knee deep in the water, one hand cupped under his chin like they teach you in life saving. 

"I got you," she says. "Just lie still, okay." 

"Simmons…" Fusco gasps, and Shaw points with one elbow at a shape lying face down in the water, arms and legs spread out like a star. Simmons is drifting on the water, floating gently out to sea. 

"Once the current gets him, he'll be in Connecticut's jurisdiction," Shaw says. Fusco gives a hysterical bark of laughter. 

Behind them, and slightly above, Finch's voice drifts down. "Ms Shaw, you cannot leave him like that. Appalling as he is, I cannot condone murder." 

Shaw glances up over her shoulder. Finch stands on the concrete bank of the ramp, well clear of the water. "Are you kidding me, Finch? He was pretty happy to murder Fusco." 

Finch's silent disapproval radiates from above, and Shaw sighs, exasperated. She leans on Simmon's shoulder, flips him over so he's floating face up, pushes him back towards the ramp. Fusco sees bubbles emerging from Simmons' mouth as he takes a breath, then another. 

"You happy now?" Shaw says. "Can I help Fusco out of the water or should I give this D-bag a kiss and a manicure?" 

Finch answers this by going to the car and backing it slowly down the ramp. 

Shaw helps Fusco get his feet under him. He's shivering as he shuffles along, each step more painful than the next, as water pours from his clothes and drags against the cuffs. Finch waits for them above the waterline with a pair of bolt-cutters, then the chains are gone. Fusco doesn't know what to do with his hands anymore. They sort of hang in front of him, weak and numb. Finch opens the door of the car, and an alarm dings softly. 

"I can't –" Fusco points to his dripping clothes, at the expensive upholstery.

Shaw elbows him in the side, and he folds down, still protesting as she bundles his legs inside. It's a neat, slick little rescue, with very little evidence left for Simmons to investigate, once he wakes up on the boat ramp. Shaw even collects up the shackles, so there's no hint of what happened. Then she sits in the back seat with Fusco's head in her lap, checking his reflexes while Harold drives. 

"Why'd you – I didn't expect you to…" Fusco's teeth are chattering. He's so cold that his tongue feels weird and smooth in his mouth. He hopes he's not biting it. 

Above him, Shaw's face is as conflicted as he's ever seen it. "The hell you didn't expect us to come get you," she says. "As if we'd leave you. As if I'd beat you up and then just let you get over it by yourself." She shines a light in his eyes, which really fucking hurts. He tries to slap it away, and she catches his hand in hers and holds it still. Fusco is actually terrified of how gently she holds it. 

Finch waves his card at some fancy bed and breakfast place, and the next thing Fusco knows, he's up to his eyeballs in a tub. The water is hot enough that it stings as bad as the ocean did, but only for a minute or two, then it's just blissful. Finch helped him undress, which Fusco would like to forget forever, and now bustles around the bathroom, arranging towels and clothes. He opens a bottle and sniffs it delicately, then tips some of the liquid into the water. A clean, fresh fragrance drifts upwards. 

"That better not be lavender," Fusco says. "I don't want to smell like grandma." 

Finch picks up a satin bath pillow and tucks it behind Fusco's poor, sore head. "It's rosemary and wintergreen," he says. "Supposedly it helps with aching muscles and bruising. I don't know if it will, but at the very worst it smells pleasant." He doesn't say anything about the multi-coloured canvas that is Fusco's body, for which Fusco is grateful, but there's an expression on his face that Fusco recognises, a kind of awkward dread that means they're going to have an unpleasant conversation. He saw that face ten minutes ago, when Finch realised Fusco's hands were too numb to undo his own buttons. 

"Detective," Finch begins, and Fusco can't cope with any more guilt tonight. 

"Look, I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have baited Simmons like that, it was stupid, and I didn't think it all the way through. I'm sorry you guys had to come get me out of the water like that. I'm sorry I put you all at risk." 

In his dazed state, he has the strangest feeling that Finch's face is collapsing inwards: the man presses his lips together, furrows his brow, takes off his glasses and cleans them with the towel he just laid on the edge of the tub. "Detective, you have no reason – I should be apologising to you. This number put you in terrible danger, caused you significant injury. I'm so sorry, Lionel." He reaches out, tentatively touches Fusco on the shoulder. "I was so worried." 

"About me?" Fusco says, confused. "I'm fine." 

"I didn't know that," says Finch. "I thought – well, I thought we'd find your body. I thought we would be too slow." 

"You guys were following us?" 

Finch's hand is still on his shoulder, because Fusco feels the fingers tense up. "All the way – I could track Officer Simmons' phone, but Ms Shaw is very skilled at driving in the dark with no lights on." He meets Fusco's eyes for a moment, and offers a tiny smile. "It was quite frightening. I have terrible night vision." 

Fusco sinks a little deeper into the water. "Buddy, you have terrible everything vision." 

"We will always come for you, Detective," Finch says again. "Please understand that. I can't tell you everything about my operation, but I want you to know that you're one of us." 

It's nice, the warm feeling in his fingers and toes. Fusco could get used to a little bit of luxury now and then. 

Shaw pounds on the door. "Is he conscious in there, Finch? Do I need to come in?" 

Fusco reaches for a towel folded into a fancy flower so he has something to cover his junk. "Don't come in here!" he shouts back. "I'm butt naked!" 

"So?" says Shaw. "You're not worried about Finch being in there. Why would I care?" 

It occurs to Fusco that he does actually mind Finch seeing him naked. He meets Finch's gaze again, and realises they're both feeling a little uncomfortable. 

"Well, thanks for the help, and all." Fusco says, manoeuvring the towel into a strategic position. "No, really. Finch. Thank you." 

"You're always welcome, Detective," say Harold, and leaves, closing the door behind him. Fusco can hear Shaw turning the yelling onto Finch, demanding details on Fusco's injuries, and he smiles. It's good to be part of the team.


End file.
